The Best

 

                                                                 The Best

Glasgow 1998

Peter Kaveney looked carefully at the season tickets in his hand before slipping them in his pocket. ‘Is the wee guy ready, Suzie? The bus won’t wait for us.’ His wife stood and tossed her paper onto the couch, ‘he’s been ready for two hours. I’ll go get him.’ She returned a moment later with an excited nine-year-old, already in his Larsson t-shirt, a Celtic scarf around his neck. ‘Have ye got the tickets, da?’ he said, smiling at his old man. Peter nodded, ‘right here in ma sky rocket, wee man. Who’s winning today?’ Young Patrick grinned, ‘Celtic of course!’  Peter nodded, ‘and if they do, it’ll be your first title. Sorry it took them so long. I saw plenty by your age.’ Patrick shrugged, ‘they won’t keep us waiting so long for the next one.’ Peter smiled at his son, ‘That’s the spirit. right let’s go. We’ve got a league to win.’

They sat on the supporters’ bus as it rattled along the motorway towards Celtic Park. Peter enjoyed these chances to talk to his boy about his own experiences of growing up a Celtic fan. ‘My dad, yer granda Jim- he was Celtic mad. Saw the 7-1 game, went tae Lisbon. He took me to see my first match in 1968. Celtic beat Hamilton 10-0!’ ‘Ten-nil!’ Patrick exclaimed, ‘how did ye remember all the goal scorers?’ Peter smiled, ‘oh, that was easy; Lennox 5, Chalmers 5.’ Young Peter was full of questions about his father and grandfather’s time supporting Celtic. ‘So, when did you first see Celtic win the league?’ Peter cast his mind back thirty years, ‘it was at Kilmarnock, we needed a point to clinch it. They were a tough side then. We were 2-0 down at half-time. Hit them with everything in that second half. Forced an own goal, but it looked like we were going to lose. Then in the very last minute, Tommy Gemmell hit an absolute rocket low intae the net. The place went crazy.’ 

Patrick was still curious and asked, ‘When did granda Jim see them winning it? Did he have to wait till he was nine, like me?’’  Peter thought for a moment, ‘my old man told me he saw Celtic with the league at Love Street in 1938. They won the Empire Exhibition trophy that spring tae. They were building a great team, but the war came and broke the side up.’ Patrick, in that childlike way of his, then asked, ‘so, who took grandad Jim tae the match.’ Peter smiled, that was my grandad, Paddy. He was an Irishman. He passed away before I was born so I’ve only seen photos of him. You’re named after him.’ The bus parked in its usual spot at Society Street, just off the Gallowgate. Peter looked at his son, sensing that he was just as excited about Celtic’s chances of sealing the title as he was. ’Right wee guy, let’s get you in here and see the Celts do the business!’

The huge crowd filling three sides of the rebuilt Celtic Park was in a raucous mood. Peter smiled at Patrick as the game started to a tremendous roar. It took Henrik Larsson just three minutes to weave along the edge of the St Johnstone box and curl an unstoppable shot past goalkeeper, Alain Maine. Peter swept a startled Patrick up in his arms and danced a jig of delight. ‘Yaaasssss! Here we go! Come on Celtic!’ The next seventy minutes of the game was a nervous, tense wait for the clinching goal which some thought might not come. Peter Kaveney breathed deeply the minutes ticked past. Like everyone else in the stadium, he knew Rangers were winning at Tannadice and a St Johnstone goal would torpedo Celtic’s title hopes. As if sensing his father’s nervousness, Patrick touched his arm, ‘it’s alright, da, we’ll score again.’ Peter nodded at him and smiled before refocussing on the game.

Less than a minute later, Tom Boyd swept the ball up the right wing towards Jackie McNamara. The young full back raced onto it and saw Harald Brattbakk racing into the penalty box. McNamara sent an inviting cross sweeping across the penalty area. Peter Kaveney and his son Patrick watched open mouthed, as the mercurial Norwegian striker met the ball perfectly and smashed a low shot into the net. It was 2-0. There was no way back for St Johnstone now. Celtic were the Champions. How the crowd sang and roared as their beloved team made it across the line to claim their first title in ten long years. As the trophy was held aloft by Tom Boyd, Peter Kaveney looked at his son and saw that he was crying. ‘Hey, what’s wrong, wee man? We won, we’re champions.’ Patrick sniffed, ‘I cannae help it, da. It’s just so…’ he sobbed again, ‘it’s just so…great.’ Peter hugged him, ‘it is son. It bloody is and I know you’ll see many more days like this.’ They held each other close for a long moment before turning and watching their heroes on the pitch.

 

Glasgow May 2025

Pat Kaveney could feel the heat of the early summer sun on his face as he sat in the great north stand at Celtic Park. Trophy days were always special to him and as he looked around him at the packed stadium, he cast his mind back twenty-seven years to that glorious day when, for the first time in his life, he had seen Celtic win the title. He smiled to think he had now seen them win it twenty times. His old man had ignited his love for Celtic and it hurt him to think that he was no longer around to join him on days like this. They had shared so many magical moments together watching their team; from the 6-2 game to Seville, from a second nine-in-a-row and a quadruple treble. Sometimes he would turn to his left and expect to see his old man there, but saw instead the face of his own son, Aidan. It was as if things had come full circle.

The game saw St Mirren snatch the lead and then hang on for dear life as Celtic besieged their goal. Pat Kaveney looked at his son, ‘I don’t care if the league is already won. I don’t like losing.’ Aiden looked at him, ’we’ll score da, don’t worry.’ As the game went deep into injury time, Alasdair Johnston feigned to shoot and drew St Mirren defenders towards him. As they raced to shut him down, Johnston slipped the ball right to the unmarked James Forrest. The veteran winger who had scored in every season since his debut in 2010 smashed a low shot towards goal. As Pat and Aidan watched, the ball, a blur in the bright sunshine, flashed past the despairing goalkeeper’s reach and nestled in the net.

Celtic Park erupted. The roar was as loud as any Pat had heard in all his time watching Celtic. Yes, they roared that they’d saved the game, that they’d not be defeated on this special day. They also roared for James Forrest, the remarkable one club player who had now scored in every season since his debut 15 years earlier. They roared too that this remarkable football club had refused to give in to defeat and fought right to the end. Pat Hugged his son. ‘I wish your grandad was here to see this. He’d love it.’ It struck him in that moment that that he and his father, and indeed his grandfather, had led very different lives, but the one constant in it all was their love of Celtic. His son was now the fifth generation of his family to follow Celtic. It wasn’t like they were passing on the baton to the next generation; it was more like they were gifting them a community, a history, a place in the world. Celtic was a part of their lives. Celtic was in their DNA.

Pat Kaveney and his son Aidan watched as Callum McGregor raised the league trophy above his head and into a storm of fireworks and green ticker tape. As a huge roar echoed around the great bowl of Celtic Park, Pat looked at the clear, blue sky and smiled. ‘I hope somehow, somewhere you can see this dad. We didn’t wait another ten years, eh? We’re ruling the roost now.’ His son looked at him and asked, ‘who are you talking to, da?’ Pat looked at him, ‘just saying a wee prayer that we can share more of these days together.’ Aidan nodded, ‘we will da, we will. We’re the best.’ Pat Kaveney smiled. ‘Aye son, we bloody are. Long may it continue.’